Charles Todd - The Confession

The barkeep at The Rowing Boat had been ready to kill to keep the truth from coming out. But what truth? That Willet was dead? Or that someone in Furnham recognized him?

Hamish said, “Ye ken, verra’ likely it’s no’ the fact that Willet was dead but why he died.”

They had come full circle.

Signing the last of the papers in front of him, Rutledge rose and carried them down the passage to hand them over to Constable Benning.

Back in his office once more, he asked aloud, “Where is Wyatt Russell?”

It had been a rhetorical question, but on the other hand, if Ben Willet had felt safe in impersonating the man, it could well mean that Russell too was dead.

“Miss Farraday didna’ appear to think he was deid.”

Rutledge left his office and went in search of Sergeant Gibson. “If anyone wants me, I’m going back to Essex. I expect to return tomorrow afternoon.”

“Where will you be staying, if I should need to reach you?” Gibson asked.

“I doubt there’s a telephone within thirty miles of Furnham,” Rutledge said.

Hamish said something that he missed as Gibson asked, “Would it be best, then, to speak to the Chief Superintendent before you leave?”

“I think not,” Rutledge replied, and walked on.

On the stairs he realized what it was that Hamish had tried to interject.

If there was no way the Yard could reach him while he was in Furnham, then it would be equally impossible for him to reach the Yard in the event there was trouble.

R utledge went home, packed a small valise, and set out for Essex once more. The sun was low on the horizon now, and ahead lay the dark lavender clouds of the North Sea, where evening had already begun to encroach on the day. And it was fully dark and very late when he pulled into yard of The Dragonfly Inn. He had intended to call on Mr. Morrison before he drove on to Furnham, but there had been no lights in the church and looking for the Rectory would have taken more time than he could afford, if he wanted a room for the night.

When he strode into the tiny Reception, there was no one behind the desk, but a bell stood to one side of the register, and he pushed it. It sounded rusty with damp, a grinding noise rather than a ring.

After a moment a man in his shirtsleeves appeared from the rear of the inn, frowning as he realized that here was custom he didn’t wish to serve.

“Looking for a room, are you?” he said, his manner surly. “Sorry to say, they’re all taken.”

“Indeed?” Rutledge answered. Before the man could stop him, he reached out and turned the register around, opening it to where the black ribbon marked the current page. “The last guest appears to have signed this page some ten weeks ago. Are you telling me he’s still here?”

“There’s no room available. A problem with the roof.”

“I’m here to call on Ned Willet.”

“Then you’re too late. He died not half an hour ago.”

Surprised, Rutledge said, “Then I’m here for the funeral.”

After a moment the man said grudgingly, “Very well. The room at the top of the stairs. You won’t be needing a key.”

“On the contrary. I insist on a key.”

As Rutledge signed the register the man fished in a drawer, eventually coming up with a key. He passed it across the desk, and Rutledge pocketed it.

“Good night,” he said as he turned and took the stairs two at a time. They curved slightly as they climbed, and the first room was in fact just at the top. On either side of his were two more rooms, and across the passage were three others, these overlooking the High Street. At the ends of the passage there were windows, the shades already drawn for the night.

Rutledge opened his door and fumbled for the lamp that must be near it. Finding it, he struck a match and lit the wick. As the flame strengthened, he took in his surroundings. The room wasn’t very large, but neither was it small enough to aggravate his claustrophobia. There were two narrow beds, a desk under the window, and a small wardrobe with two doors. Turning the key in the lock, he left it there and set his valise down between the beds. The coverlets were faded, a deep green that was now nearly the color of moss in the shade of a tree. There was a medallion in the center of each, with what appeared to be entwined initials, but they were spotlessly clean and the room smelled faintly of lavender and Pears’ Soap.

It had been a long day. Walking to the open window and looking out, he realized that his room was over the kitchen, and just beyond, the kitchen gardens. A lighted window cast a golden glow over the rows of vegetables, and as he watched, someone walked past the beds and came up to the rear door of the inn.

He stood, half concealed by the curtains, and through the open window he could just hear what was being said, even though whoever it was spoke in a low voice.

“Did they tell you? The old man is gone.”

“Yes. Molly stopped in on her way home.”

There was silence for a moment, and then the first voice said, “How is she?”

“Well enough. Considering. She’s still grieving for young Joseph.”

“It will be hard on her, losing his dad. Molly and Ned were close.”

“Whose motorcar is that I see on the street in front of the inn?”

“Belongs to a fellow by the name of Rutledge.”

“Yes, I thought I recognized it. What brings him back so soon?”

“He came for the funeral. He says.”

“Damn. How did he know? It just happened.”

“I told him there was no room to be had. But he insisted.”

“How long does he expect to stay?”

“He didn’t tell me.”

There was a longer silence. “Hell. We can deal with him if we have to.”

“Not in my inn.”

“No.”

And then it appeared that the man in the shadows outside the kitchen must have left, because the squares of light vanished and the garden was quiet enough that Rutledge could hear the crickets.

He was nearly sure the man outside the kitchen door was Barber, from The Rowing Boat.

Hamish said, startling him, “I wouldna’ go wandering in the dark. No’ here.”

But sleep wouldn’t come, and Hamish was fretful in the back of his mind as well. In the end, Rutledge dressed, went quietly down the stairs and out into the night.

The stars were bright in the blackness of the sky, and across the road he could hear the unseen river moving toward the sea. Turning toward his left, he walked to the edge of Furnham and out into the countryside. Ahead he could just see the silhouetted barns that marked the three farms.

He was fairly certain that the airfield hadn’t been built at the middle farm, where Nancy Brothers and her husband lived. And if he were choosing, the land nearest the estuary would offer greater clearance for night fighters taking off in a hurry or crippled aircraft looking for an easy landing. It would also afford a better view of Zeppelins moving toward the mouths of the rivers that would point them directly into the heart of London. France was not so very far away, after all, and there would be no problem with navigation over a short stretch of open sea.

Looking over the low fence designed to keep cattle from roaming, he could see the massive black bulk against the stars that would be the house and barn. Far enough away, he thought, that he could do a little exploring without awakening the owner.

The fence was rusted and broken in places, although grasses and vines had mended the wire in their own fashion, running up the posts and making a heavier barrier than the original one. Finding a short gap some twenty feet farther on, he stepped through the tangle of briars and vines and into the field beyond. He kept walking, minding where he went, and soon enough he could see where the airfield had been laid out, including the rough foundations of the buildings that had been put up in haste. Where the actual flying field had been, the texture of the grass and weeds was different. Moving back to explore the ruins again, he tripped over a low-lying pile of stones and swore as he fought for his balance. In the distance a dog began to bark, and he stood still.